Coming Home
by Moon Witch '96
Summary: AU. It was all because Helga challenged Godric to a drinking contest. They all had decided that it was actually an interesting avenue of research. Being reincarnated was only a hypothetical- a theory that they deiced once the runes and spells were cast, that they would deal with in their next life. They honestly did not expect it to work. Please Read & Review.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

They stared at the four vials on the stone courtyard floor in front of them, hesitating.

They looked innocent enough, just a softly glowing, silvery liquid in ordinary crystal vials that were only worth a mouthful. They looked different in the rising dawn, glittering and tempting, quite unlike the clear liquid it had been just hours before they had started. They stank of magic and something that made all of their hair stand on end. After a year of brewing and calculations made to the absolute perfection, a joint effort between the founders of Hogwarts, they still couldn't bring themselves to drink. It wasn't because they were scared exactly after all this was just based on the theoretical, but they were still unsure of where this would take them.

Helga Hufflepuff had cast the runes, Rowena Ravenclaw made the potion, Godric Gryffindor had done the Arithmetic calculations and Salazar Slytherin had created the charm they had just cast in their Circle. They were breathing heavy, sweat on their brows, at the dance they had just performed. It had taken a few months before they could cast without stumbling into each other- as four was not traditionally well spaced out when it came to the casting of such powerful Ritual Circle Magic. And powerful it had been, now, they were all the floor, pushed back by sheer force of their combined magic.

"Bloody hell," muttered Salazar, pushing back his black hair with a ring heavy hand. Most attributed him to a sly cunning, he was a strategic genius of course, which meant for impeccable manners and tact, but his dearest friends knew the man to be a foul mouth and a little dense at times.

Godric laughs, a slightly hysterical note to his throaty voice:

"Now that had some bleedin' _kick_! "

Rowena snorts, carefully sitting up, pushing herself with her elbows. Even disheveled with flyaway hair, she manages to look elegant.

"I believe we may have miscalculated the out-pour of magic."

Godric looked over, pursing his lips.

"There's nothing wrong with my calculations."

Helga sighed, pushing herself into a sitting position before she fell back and gave up. Her blond curls bounce as she flops backward with the grace of a wingless butterfly.

"Then we were a bit overzealous in our invocating because I believe what you said was, 'It'll just be a little whack on the chest, Helgy'. "

Godric rolled his eyes.

"Excuse me if casting magic to reincarnate ourselves required a lot more of us than what we expected. I did say that there was a possible pull from the spell!"

The Four had stumbled upon this thought after having a bit of a rousing night of drinking in the nearly finished Teacher's Lounge last summer. It was a bit of a ridiculous area of research, they could admit. The idea of an ethereal essence in all of them, souls, being real. And the idea of using their Magic as a means to attach them once again to another body after death, to be reborn again in this world.

Of course, they were all well read, had seen the merits of the theories of those Greek chaps, but it had only been used to educate and further their inquiry of their world. The idea had festered and made them wonder, where would their souls, if they existed, would go after they left this world? Would they simply fall into a void of ether and would their hopes, dreams and memories simply crumble to dust as their bodies would, or would it just recycle again? They had no idea and their research could only get them so far. It had been Godric's idea to push it from the theoretical to reality.

Salazar sighed and moved forward first, long and pale hands snatching up the vial in a quick movement.

"We might as well," he sniffed, curling his fingers in his dark, black beard, "It's not like it'll kill us. We already cast the spell. Where's your sense of adventure?"

Godric looked towards his best friend and raised a brow. He picked up a vial, lifting it to his tawny, brown eyes.

"Do you really think this will work?" he asked, amused at the prospect of what the spell and potion would do together. The spell had been a bombastic show of light and beauty, but they had created such spells as duds before.

Rowena sighed, crawling forward with the strength of a newborn lamb. She lifted the vial, smiling at her own work and shook her head, her dark brown hair moving with it in a silky wave.

"What? That our souls will not depart onto the next adventure and instead return to a living vessel upon our deaths?" she laughed, her voice a chime of bells, she smiled, large, dreamy gray eyes flashing, "We have no idea. But is that not the fun of it?"

Helga sighed, flipping herself with a grunt, moving forward and lifting the vial to her own blue eyes. Salazar watched her out of the corner of his dark brown eyes following her every movement. She frowned, biting her lower lip. She was the first to drink, tipping back in a quick movement. Salazar's eyes widen at the sight of her glowing faintly gold, before he followed suit, fumbling to drink his own vial, nearly dropping it in his haste. His own body was an emerald green, for a few moments, before his pale skin dimmed. Rowena and Godric looked at each other before Godric drank his vial in haste. He glowed red, bright and hot before his darkly tanned skin was normal. Rowena hesitated, waiting for a minute or two to see that the others had not dropped dead before she drank, glowing deep blue once she had finished her potion.

Neither said nothing, trying to see if they felt any different or if they were all about to keel over and die.

"How will we find each other," muttered Helga, she turned to her fellow founders, to her best of friends in the last few years since they had decided to start this crazy idea of bringing magical people together in times of burning and fright amongst their fellow man, "How will we even know of the others if it works, if we remember our lives now?"

They were all renowned across Europe despite their youth, despite the dismissals of many when they had all announced their intention to form a magical school for most of the Isles to unite, but in that moment at Helga's poised question they all felt their ages. Barely past their twentieth years and faced with their mortality.

"Hogwarts. We'll come back. Go to our personal corridor," mentioned Salazar, plainly, placing a comforting hand on Helga's shoulder. He was pointing out their private quarters, in the heart of the school, hard to access and easy to hide if they so wished it.

She stared at him, a small smile growing on her face before she boldly pushed his hand off. If her fingertips linger upon his for a fraction of the second, neither mentioned it.

"What, shall we decided to seal it after our deaths?"

Rowena hummed.

"And what shall be the new password, upon the seal, 'Follow the Hog to the cliffs, by the water'?"

"I rather like the choice of 'This was a shite idea and a shot in the dark, but hey, souls exist'," mentioned Salazar, smirking.

"How about, 'A drinking contest with Godric leads to amazing discoveries' ?" mentioned Helga, winking at him.

Godric grinned, waggling his thick, vividly red brows at her.

"If I recall, you challenged me."

"And out drank you," she said sassily, tossing her honey blonde curls, smiling at her dear friend.

The man laughed, deep and moving his massively muscled chest in sheer delight.

"Oh Helgy, I should've known that a woman of your beauty and power could handle me, sister of my hearts!"

She curtsied, as elegantly as she could sitting down.

Rowena watched their easy friendship, in the soft, quiet way of hers. Large dreamy eyes intent on the people she had become friends with, whom she had striven to rise within troubled times against her people. She looked around in the courtyard they had just finished, looking at the walls they had all gathered painstakingly over the course of five years to construct a magical sanctuary for children to learn without fear of the noose or the fire. She touched the stones of the courtyard, closing her eyes so she could feel the very magic they had instilled into them for the protection of the castle.

"I know what our code should be, 'The Doors of Hogwarts shall always be open to welcome us home', " said Rowena, softly, opening her eyes and staring at them all. Her eyes were misty, wide and far away.

They smiled back and not even Salazar could make a smart comment on it, placing his empty vial back onto the floor. The rest did so as well. It was a moment before they could even speak. Then, Salazar smirked.

"Well, to life after death," he remarked, long arm flickering out, wand drawing up some whiskey, along with four goblets.

Godric snorted, snatching a glass from the air. He allowed Salazar to fill his goblet.

"This is what got us here in the first place."

Rowena smirked, gently guiding her own goblet into her hands.

"And how is that a bad thing?"

Helga laughed as she grabbed her goblet.

"My friends, may we meet again!" she said, lifting her glass.

The four Hogwarts Founders lifted their goblets, smiling and laugh at the prospect of another life with their friends:

"May we meet again!" they chorused.


	2. To the Well-Organized Mind, Death is But

**To The Well-Organized Mind, Death Is But The Next Great Adventure**

Rowena Ravenclaw dies first.

She is fifty-four-years-old, sick of a fever, and so tired. She has been feeling ill for the last few months( _more tired than ill_ ), but dismissed it in favor of her potion and charms classes and focusing on the state of the school and the children. Even her husband had made a note of it, mentioning how pale she was:

 _Lord Ruaraidh Ravenclaw is not as intelligent as his wife- he had long come to the conclusion that she was both more clever than him and beyond him. It is, however, what has brought him to love her in the first place, his fair witch from Glen. Marrying her only affirmed that his wife is the most intelligent woman to ever walk the earth- However, it also affirmed the fact that she was completely mad, often completely single mindedly focused on a specific task to the point of neglect to any other thing trying to grab her attention._

 _As of late, she has looked beyond ragged- his fair witch's skin had turned sallow, her gait stiff and unpracticed. He had never seen her look like that save once- when their daughter had run off._

" _Dearest," he said, watching as she viciously attacked the students' essays… Poor things, "You don't look well."_

 _His wife pauses, lifting tired gray eyes to him. She blinks heavily at him before she lays her quill into her inkwell. She carefully pushes away her brown hair and Ruaraidh marvels at the fact that she had so many silver hairs- he knows he never made note of it until Helena had gone missing. He shakes his head and comes to stand by her. She leans into his hip, sighing. He places a hand at the nape of her neck, massaging the delicate skin there._

" _I know. I must finish theses essays and then I have to finish refining the curriculum concerning the Charm class- Oh, Salazar left such a m-"_

" _Mess. Yes… Isn't it time we find a replacement for him?"_

 _She stiffens, and he sighs._

" _Ruaraidh, of course not! If he would just see sense and come back-"_

" _He may not want that, Rowena… He and Godric got to the point of blows. I swear that Godric and Salazar would've have drawn blades if it hadn't been for Helga blasting the two apart."_

 _Rowena made a noise at the back of her throat._

" _They were both being ridiculous. Honestly, the pair are like a bunch of schoolboys. If they could both come to be more reasonable over the whole non-magic born students instead of screaming at each other-"_

" _It's a sensitive topic for both. You know that."_

 _She just sighed, rubbed at her eyes, emphasizing how deep the bags beneath them are. Ruaraidh felt his heart twinge._

" _Rowena, I beg you rest, please."_

 _She smiled. It only just reached her usually expressive eyes._

" _Is that worry, love?"_

 _He hummed._

" _There is talk of illness near here, Rowena. Please do not over work yourself and set yourself to attract it."_

 _Rowena stiffened._

" _How near?"_

" _A couple leagues, no more than ten."_

 _She narrows her eyes, stands suddenly, legs wobbling slightly from being in that position for too long._

" _I must consult the school wards with Helga."_

" _That it is the opposite that I want you to do- Allow me to consult with them. Go. To bed."_

 _Rowena only straightens, narrowed her large eyes and frowned at him._

" _The Wards are attended best to those who created them- That was not you," she said simply before she gathered her outer robe and all but fled the room._

Rowena is on her deathbed, pleading for a daughter that would not come. _She doesn't care about the diadem. She just wants her Helena by her side._ Helga is by her side instead, Helena has been missing for years, but it seems that Rowena has forgotten. Helga is nursing her as best she can, but even she knows that Rowena is dying. She cannot stop it.

"Come on, Row, dear," she begs, tears in her eyes, "You can't leave yet. Not me, here alone, please."

Helga has no idea what to do next. Godric had gone off galavanting as knights are prone to do, Salazar had fled just last spring and had yet to respond to any of her letters. Ruaraidh is across the sea in the Continent gathering supplies for the illness that was threatening the frailer of the students and staff, and all Helga can hope is that he will receive the owl she had sent in time. Rowena chuckles and tugs at the curl of the woman she called sister.

"I'm not leaving. Not without my Helena. Helena! Helena!"

Helga sighed, wiping at her brow. She sang, softly, trying to ease her friend as she thrashing.

"Please, Row," she whispers, gripping her arm.

Gray eyes, vivid and hazy turn to Helga.

"Oh, my little bird, have you come back?" she whispers, her thin, sickly hand coming to reach for her desperately.

Helga can not say a word as her friend continues to reach for someone that is not her.

"I knew the Baron would bring you back. Stupid odious man loves you know… Little bird, please, oh, your father will be so pleased..."

Rowena does not last the night.

 **OOOOOOO**

Salazar Slytherin dies next.

But he dies at seventy, the work of his dark magic* finally catching up to him

 _My Colleagues,_

 _I wish to inquire whether or not the school and the staff are well. It would do me well to know that the school is in running order and I hope that this is the case. I have written to be informed after the policies that which were put in place at my departure, and whether or not they have been done in the best interest of our proud community-_

"Bloody hell that makes me sound like a right idiot," muttered Salazar, before, not even caring for the expense, he seized his vellum and crumpled it into a tight little ball. He then tossed the ball with a slight growl over his shoulder.

Dozens of balls of parchment(only the finest) lay around him and he has tried again and again to pen to his friends- _former friends,_ he has to remind himself - To apologize, to stand his ground- for something. He is angry and tired, he had not wanted his friends to stand against him, but despite his stubborn pride he had wished that he had not argued with Godric in the first place. _But he was in the right._ He knew he was right- non-magics, foul and cruel and worse, ignorant, could not have their children going home with magic spells on their breath.

Children would burn- and he had pledged himself to their cause to save children and his people alike against the ignorant filths that were jealous and monstrously cruel to their fellow men. Their spawn with magic-despite being _innocent and poor things_ , could not be saved. They could not be allowed without the risk of the boys and girls who had sought to hone their birthrights.

His stomach feels all wrong- he makes a mental note to advise his cook to ease up on those blasted spices. He was seventy not some young brute with a stomach of iron. He sighed, breath huffing as he dipped his quill into his fine ink.

"Husband," said a voice and he turns, to his wife, beautiful despite their time together stood, leaning against the doorway. She is dressed finely and expensively and he notes with a slight approval that she is wearing the colors of his House.

Salazar frowns, sighs and gestures for her to speak. She is holding up a letter, crumpled in her hand, frowning.

"Do you really think you can convince them of anything?" she asks, shaking her dark hair in a dismissive way. It had yet to gray, like his had, despite the fact that she was only ten years his junior.

 _He had never liked dark hair. Always too similar to his. It is why Helga-_ he thrusts the thought away.

"I can try, never mind that to you, wife," he said simply, feeling irritated and he thrust his quill into the ink well.

His wife narrows her dark eyes, hands clasping tightly around the parchment.

"After all this time, do you believe they would be willing to accept even the owl from you?" she said softly, tossing the letter absently towards his desk.

Salazar flicks it away with a casual wave of his wand.

"Really Annabla? Throwing things like a common rabble? Most unbefitting," he said, tiredly, rubbing absently at his chest.

His wife sighs.

"I really don't care, Salazar, if you wish to inquire for the past," she says, drawing herself up slightly, "But as your wife, I hope you will see fit to be logical. The strong arm approach has never been your strength, husband."

Despite the prick of irritation at how true her words are, he finds himself softening.

"My dear, you-"

He pauses, feeling the most odd tightness in his chest. He places a hand on it again, blinking rapidly. Annabla frowns.

"Salazar?"

He opens his mouth to respond, but gives a slight gasp as his heart constricts rapidly and most unnaturally.

"Salazar?" asks, Annabla, brows furrowing as she watches his strange expression.

"We need to _fire_ our bloodyco-" Salazar does not finish his sentence, a soft moan escaping him as he pitches forward into the pile of parchment in front of him.

Curiously, he can only see black spots, impairing his vision of his wife's fine silk robes.

"Husband?" says Annabla, sounding distant and almost concerned.

"Wife?" he asks, shakily, panic and something else seizing him as his heart beat so unnaturally. He reaches for her, trying to blink the _bleedin'_ spots away.

Salazar's mind is a blur, as his wife heaves him onto her shoulders, screaming at servants to help and then his world is even more compressed and so _painful._ Vaguely, as the world grows darker, all Salazar can hear is his wife sobbing, begging for someone, to please allow this. He does not understand and then there is a pressure, a touch to his brow, the softness of lips and he can vaguely smell her perfume, some expensive thing that he hated but how could he not get it for her because at least she liked it. Then, someone is gripping his hand, tight and true and he _knows_ that hand. They are calloused and scarred and so ridiculously large that it warrants mention.

"God-" Salazar's can only wheeze helpless, high sounds, unable to form words.

"Old friend, you've come home," and Godric's voice washes over him, deep and true. Salazar tries to respond to say something, _anything_ but all he can do is wheeze are to grip the hand in return.

"Oh Salazar, it alright, we are here," it is Helga's voice and he can feel her hand on his opposite one.

His arms strain and he tries to speak, squeezes the hands weakly.

"Husband," whispers Annabla, near his ear, "Please, husband, do not strain yourself."

Salazar lives for a few more moments but with the certainty that he is forgiven.

 **OOOOOOO**

Godric Gryffindor dies after.

True to his nature, it is a bombastic quest of chivalry and gallantry that claims his life. He is eighty, which is not terribly old but still up there in age, even for a wizard. It was a fine day and his legs are only slightly sore when he dismounts from his large horse. He stretches, cracking his very stiff back and absently pats for his sword, which rests comfortably on his back as well as his wand, which he finds is still in its holster. It is a habit that carries over from the days before he had found the right scabbards for his weaponry.

" _My dear Godric, where is your blade?"_

 _Flushing, praying to the great Lord that Salazar's chest moving rapidly up and down is not with suppressed laughter, Godric fumbles to feel his sword. Of course, the damn thing is not on his back. Rowena is pressing her lips together and Helga is just looking at him with a raised brow. Feeling his face burn, Godric raises his wand and mutters:_

" _Accio, sword," in a quiet voice and catches his blade, scabbard and all, by the hilt._

 _Helga sighs._

" _Is your holster worn again?"_

" _I did tangle with a Griffin the other day, must've caught the damn thing when it grabbed me."_

 _He twisted it and saw that it was once again worn, too thin to cast a simple repairing charm upon. He sighed._

" _Must you be so reckless, friend?" said Salazar, rolling his eyes._

 _Godric pursed his lips._

" _It is not recklessness if it was in defense in of some one else, Sally. One of the students was almost mauled by the thing for antagonizing it."_

" _Do not call me Sally."_

" _Sally," said Helga with a slight smirk,"Do take care not to tease Godric too terribly."_

 _Salazar flushed, darkly, his pale skin showing off the color well._

He sighs in relief at the fact that his sword is in place. He then freezes as he spots a figure, running for him, waving their arms rapidly in the air. Curious, and slightly alarmed he heaves his large sword*, easily with just one arm, in his other, he lets loose his wand, letting his sleeve cover it. He mounts his horse, easily maneuvering his reins into his teeth and urging it on towards the person. He is both alarmed and startled to see that it is a young woman, covered in burns and looking frightened beyond belief.

"Fair lady," he inquires, quickly, looking at her fine dress and jeweled necklace, "Whatever is the matter?"

"Dragon, Sirrah!" she cries helplessly, wincing at the burns, eyes wild as she tugged helplessly at his protective mail, "Please, sir knight, aid us!"

Godric nods grips the reins in his hand again.

"Take shelter, head for the cliffs by the great lake it is only a league or so, go," he says, gesturing behind him, urgently, before he takes off at a gallop.

Part of him ponders the fact that he is eighty and off to slay a dragon. Most of Godric is alarmed that one is so close to the school. Droves of frightened non-magical people are screaming heading for him and he screams and instructs every one of them to head for the castle. It is only a few minutes before he spots the great beast, a sleek, large thing with rough, dark scales, ridges along its serpentine body and a spiked tail. What alarms him the most is its great violet eyes violently vivid and hissing as it spews forth flame and rumbling roars that vibrate in his chest.

It is in a village, a nonmagical, the closest to the school. It is also in ruins, huts, and hatches torn apart by the roaring dragon. With vague alarm, he realizes that it is preparing to nest, gathering materials and with a touch of disgust, bodies of livestock to feed as it prepares for its hatchlings. Godric's mind is spinning as he catches sight of a poor man that had been crushed by the great beast's claws, most likely unintentionally.

 _Hatchlings dragons are ravenous and will ruin the school in a matter of weeks._

" _Expecto Patronum_ ," he chants softly, a cold sweat starting at his brow and back, "Helga, dragon, beyond the lake, three leagues or so, be quick for the love of the Lord*."

His Patronus, large, looming and glowing, of course, attracts the attention of the dragon.

"Oh, _Sard_ *."

His Patronus is gone quickly with a flail of its many limbs. And all Godric can do is dismount, heart pounding as his horse flees for its life. Sword in one hand, wand in another, Godric mutters a quick prayer and lets out a large war cry that has served him well as he rushes the beast. He is casting spell after spell around it, changing the consistency of the ground to that of water, sinking the poor, crazed beast as it flails and throws a plume of flames in his direction.

Godric is swift, but old and lunges to the side in a quick roll. But his left leg is caught in the very edge of the flames. His clothing is charmed, of course, against such an attack, his sturdy boots, but even Rowena's spells can only do so much. He hisses at the ache but stands stubbornly on his feet. He has suffered worse, has battled his way through broken bones and with his limbs nearly hacked off. A little dragon will not best him.

"You are not my first dragon!" he screams, heaving his sword at it, making quick, precious strikes at its body( _never aim for the rear end or the front end of a dragon, always armed with something no matter the species_ ) as he makes the ground solid over the dragon, which unfortunately chooses that moment to beat its great wings.

Godric is thrown back tumbling like a rag doll, screaming and cursing as he slams his sword into the ground. He is scrambling for purchase as the wings blow air and threaten to send him ass over kettle. _I would never live that down._ Quickly, he sends pieces of the village huts transfiguring iron and heavy weighted barrels atop the wings in hope of stopping it. It only partially succeeds and Godric rushes against both the wind and flames. He is wielding his blade and wand in unison as he yells at the poor nesting thing in fury and defiance.

"YOU WILL **NOT** ENDANGER MY STUDENTS!"

He runs, leaping over flames and teeth bring down his silver goblin sword on its neck. He nearly wrenches his shoulder out of his socket as he is hacking and screaming to high heaven. Blood, hot and dark, spews like a fountain across his face. It is in his rush and slight carelessness that he does not take into account of the great beast's tail, which in its final moments, whips forward to catch him on his back. Godric looses the grip on his sword, hand coming up curiously to notice that there _is a spike through his chest_ falling forward slack as he begins to cough up blood.

Godric lives long enough to wield his wand, finishing the job of taking the beast's head.

 **OOOOOOO**

Helga Hufflepuff dies last.

She is the oldest, nearly a hundred and ten when she passes. And she is sighing as she walks forward to her rooms after a long day of delegating the running of the castle. She is Headmistress, had been since they had opened the school, so long ago. She is not quite tired, it was more or less an average day at the castle. She had spent much of the day bent over a desk in an empty classroom, as she had never quite liked the grandiose room that Rowena and Godric had insisted for the Headmaster's room, scribbling away expenses and approving lesson plans left and right, or disapproving them.

She feels cold, quite normal as it was winter and the grounds were covered in snow and is gathering her thick outer robes close to her, even as she casts her next warming charm. Faintly, she misses the warm robes Rowena had made for her in her first unforgiving winter so high north- her homeland was cold as most of the Isle's were, but there was something of the high north that always chilled her straight to her bones. She had outgrown Rowena's hand stitched robes at sixty years old, her already full body rounding off even further the older she became. And she feels the cold keenly, as her current seamstress did not have the same talent as her late friend.

She tried not to think, as she passed three empty set of rooms, that she was the last to sleep in this corridor of the four who had set the stones and wards across the school grounds. Sometimes it startled her to think that Godric had died thirty years passed- or even Salazar some forty and Rowena sixty. Made her old heart ache keenly.

"My dear woman, you are always terribly late to come to bed," came a voice, as she tiptoed into her rooms.

Helga nearly jumped out of her skin for the second time that night.

"Helga, dear, you are just so late."

She smiled.

"My Auln, must you scare your dearest wife, to death?"

He laughed. In nearly sixty years of marriage, he had yet to lose the deepness of his voice. It made her shiver when she had first heard it. His dear face had not been able to claim the same- weathered and as lined as her own. Though he claimed constantly that her face had never changed, _the flatter._ He was dressed for bed, even had that silly and horrible cap she had knitted for him over forty years ago. When she had yet to get the hang of it, as knitting, or looming for that matter, had been Rowena's art, not her's. But with practice, she had improved. But then again he always wore her creations, no matter how dreadful.

"If I must, and only if she keeps me waiting half the night."

She hummed, shedding her outer robe and dress over her head, tossing it in the vague direction of her changing screen. She shuffled forward in her thick winter shift, glad for the fact that a fire was roaring in her fireplace.

"Oh Auln, you know you do not have to wait for me," she said, softly, climbing into bed with some effort, wand flickering absently to let out the candles he had let burn.

"I will always wait, love."

She hummed, resting her head as she buried herself deep into their bed furs and sheets.

"You're like ice," he grumbled, but his arms came around her without much complaint otherwise.

She laughed.

"Then such a good thing you are so warm, my love."

He curled around her, still tall if not as broad as he had been, once, and she curled back into him, taking in how warm he was. He hummed deeply in his chest, a welcome habit she had picked up herself some ten years into their marriage.

"Alaw wishes to visit, come the Winter Solstice," he said, yawning.

"And what, our own wayward daughter needs a personal invitation to come? Nearly all of us already live in the castle who else will she spend it with?" she said back, yawning tiredly, eyes heavy.

"You cannot fault her being the only one to leave the nest, Helga."

Helga snorts.

"I have not faulted her for over sixty years. She wished to stand apart from my legacy. I have made peace with it."

"Indeed."

"Doubt in your voice, Alun? How vexing."

He laughed, deep and as rich as it had been when she first heard it.

"Someone has to be against you, love. If not your husband, who would be brave enough?"

She laughed, yawning.

"Have I exhausted you?"

"Not in fifty years, Alun."

He laughed again, tightening his still strong arms around her. He pressed a tender a kiss on her brow.

"Cold, Helga, how utterly cold you are, allow me to continue to warm you."

"Why thank you Alun, good night."

She laughed again herself, interrupted by another yawn. He hummed, hummed and hummed, soothing her already heavy eyes to close. She hummed back, weakly, her voice never as strong or as sweet as her husband's. But he did always enjoy it.

Helga sleeps, content and warm, for the last time.

* * *

 **AN: I do not own Harry Potter nor its characters. All of its rights belong to its amazing author, its publishing, and broadcasting companies.**

 **This is me, making misshapen sand castles in its sandbox.**

 **HOLY RESEARCH BATMAN!**

 **Okay. I meant to knock out this chapter much sooner, but the more I wrote, the more I had to back track for historical accuracy. I won't claim that it's perfect, considering I'm using modern English versus, well, Latin and mixture of Galetic, Welsh, etc, that is due for the time period that these people lived... Well. Here we go. This, more or less, as far as I could gather is roughly in the high middle ages, which is the late 10th century to early eleventh century, which is what Harry Potter wiki, lexicon and Pottermore more or less say that the Founders were born and lived in. I love history, and I pride myself to be somewhat of an amateur historian, but the high medieval period is one I haven't really focused on, simply because I usually focus on the art side of history.**

 **Any corrections, with proof, would welcome, as the amount of research I've done is some what extensive and I would hate to be wrong about something.**

 ***1: Dark Magic: From what I can see, the darkest magic always, always has a price. Murder is a fracture of your soul, and a Horcrux is an extension/ritual involving it. I am confident in my assumption that other dark magic has its price, which is why we have Salazar dying via his experiments into dark magic. NO, before anyone asks, he did not make a Horcrux(The first to do so successfully was Harpo the Foul who is before Salazar's time, but I personally do not see it in Salazar's interest plus it would undermine the spell/ritual the founders performed to reincarnate). So Salazar dies of a heart attack because of his experiments! And before anyone starts to go on about how not all dark magic is evil, I want to reiterate the fact that in the Harry Potter Universe, magic is kinda of black and white. You can make an argument for how magic is just magic and it's all about intent, yadda, but from what we get in the text? Black magic and White Magic are exclusive and have its claim and effects on its caster.**

 **From what I can see, the darkest magic always, always has a price. Murder is a fracture of your soul, and a Horcrux is an extension/ritual involving it. I am confident in my assumption that other dark magic has its price, which is why we have Salazar dying via his experiments into dark magic. NO, before anyone asks, he did not make a Horcrux(The first to do so successfully was Harpo the Foul who is before Salazar's time, but I personally do not see it in Salazar's interest plus it would undermine the spell/ritual the founders performed to reincarnate). So Salazar dies of a heart attack because of his experiments! And before anyone starts to go on about how not all dark magic is evil, I want to reiterate the fact that in the Harry Potter Universe, magic is kinda of black and white. You can make an argument for how magic is just magic and it's all about intent, yadda, but from what we get in the text? Black magic and White Magic are exclusive and have its claim and effects on its caster.**

 ***2: Swords:**

 **Traditional swords of the period are rather titchy. Like, at most thirty or so inches (80 or so centimeters for all the non-Americans). Relatively small in comparison to late period swords, which can extend more or less forty to seventy inches. So, yeah. I did some research(key word there) and found that a sword at the time that is perfect is lo and behold, a Knightly sword(double edged, straight sword, think of it as a precursor to the broadsword or the basket-hilted sword, which came into fashion about the 1500s). Made it a little bit of the bigger side to make up for Godric, who I always imagined as being relatively huge for the period. I peg his sword at about five feet or so, or about a meter and third in length.**

 **3*: Religion:**

 **Godric is from an area of the British Isles from West Country in England, that was fairly religious. In fact, you can't find most places in the period that aren't religious. It was the high middle ages- it tends to be very religious. I debated this heavily with my sister(a Harry Potter fan with the knowledge that I miss and she's my sounding board and semi-editor) with research and in book text to get this right- and this seg-wayed very heavily into a conversation of the blood purity of the founders and how that reflects into their religious affinities. According to the three sites mentioned in 1*, all the founders are either half-bloods or purebloods- we didn't exactly follow that. Respectively, Helga is pureblood, Godric muggle-born, Rowena half-blood, and Salazar is a pureblood. Helga is a druid in accordance of Scots usually being that even if according to history they disappeared in the first and second century in Wales, Godric is from a landed family in difficult times of invasion and wars that decided to hone his gift for the sake of the family(they hired a wizard to teach him), Rowena is from Glen(Scotland) which was currently getting their kingdom settled and infusing religion right around the time she would have grown up and Salazar- is... Salazar is from Fen(Eastern England) which was religious but he's a pureblood yo.**

 **4*: Words:**

 **So fuck is a relatively modern word that made its appearance around the 1500s. Sard, on the other hand, was the middle age equivalent of it.**

 **I hope you liked the chapter! Please feel free to review, comment and ask questions!**

 **~Happy Reading,**

 **Moon Witch '96**


	3. Where Do Vanished Objects Go? Into Non-b

**Where Do Vanished Objects Go? Into Non-being, Which Is To Say, Everything**

 _1986_

She remembers in a blinding flash of white light- with a blast that sends her small body flying and slams her against the far wall. She reaches blindly for a phantom hand of her friend, of her near-sister, clutching her as she screamed for her daughter to be with her, to forgive her for not keeping her safe and for not understanding the strain she had placed on her. Her only child. Her little bird... And everything is throbbing in blinding agony, memories of a lifetime trying to make sense in the mind of a five-year-old is literally too much.

It was like a whirlwind or a tornado that touched her mind, brushing away everything like a hurricane, a maelstrom of sweeping winds that leave her gasping.

She groans, her voice a gurgle of misery and wordless pain. She can barely analyze, barely comprehend what is happening to her. It feels like hours, but perhaps only a few minutes pass until she can see past the vision of white. She slumps further against the wall, falling to her side, hair across her face. Still, flat grey eyes look at her from across the room.

She reaches for them, a sob coming through her throat. Her hand, so incredibly small, pale and covered in soot, is an echo of what it once was, swallow skin drawn taut over a skeletal hand of someone who had lost weight in too short a time, her family's signet ring glinting in the light as she reached for someone who was not there. Fevered apparitions of a love gone projected against a loved one that had flat eyes and neck at an odd angle, across the room for her, out of her weak reach.

"No… No," her voice is weak, high and devastated.

And she can do nothing. For she loses herself to a whirlwind of memories. When a warm, hesitant hand touches her head, she can barely register it. Hardly feels it as they bring her tiny body close, a wordless sob escaping their lips as they clutched her to them.

"Please, no, no, not you."

 **OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

 _1983_

Ron Weasley* remembers when he is three-years-old and because at five-years-old Fred and George want the teddy he has in his arms because it used to theirs(along with its twin, which had been easy enough to take from little Ginny) but their mum had told them that Ronnie needed it more. They do not like this, and they definitely do not like that their baby brother is looking so smug about it. Especially because he had just broken Fred's toy broomstick just a few seconds before. And Fred gets mad because that was his teddy and the broomstick had been his only birthday present.

Ron is holding his teddy, gnawing absently at the ear, comforting because it smelled like his mummy, and it's rather warm. He is half asleep, when it changes, comforting plush arms beginning to wiggle, and new ones sprouting. The thick, coarse and tuffs of spiky hairs dig into his skin and he screams bloody murder. In a burst of accidental magic, the largely fought over teddy is sent to the wall with a large _SPLAT_.

But Ron hardly hears it, for his memories come to him like crashing wave against soft sand, or the movement of flood gates being crashed open by a tsunami.

A whirlpool that swirls around his three-year-old brain sweeping away what little memories he has made in an agonized current of water that has him gasping. He falls back and begins to spasm. Fred and George start to cry in fear, holding onto each other with disbelief as they watch both the ooze of what was left of the spider fade into pieces of stuffing and matted, abused fur and their baby brother.

Molly Weasley is in the kitchen when this happens, but within her eyesight is a wedding gift from Arthur- the family clock(a gesture of assurance and comfort at the start of the War). It is more of a nervous habit than anything when her eyes go to clock, and she gives a startled intake of breath half between a cry and a denial, as Ron's hand goes to 'Mortal Peril'. She still has the reflexes of her time in the war, though Molly had never been part of most of the fighting with so many young children, she still had honed herself in preparation to protect what was her's. Her wand is in her hand and her heart is pounding as she dashes out of the kitchen.

Her youngest boy is on the floor, his blue eyes are rolled into the back of his head, mouth open in wordless pain. He thrashes and arches his back with a sicking creak. Molly goes to her son, dropping her knees and quietly going through what little healing Magic she knows. Nothing works, and she does not believe she can perform any sort of evaluation magic even if she knew it.

So she sings, softly, an old spell taught to her by her mum, who learned it from her mum. It is not powerful, but it is soft, warm and familiar and she hopes to calm her son as much as she can as she understands that she can do nothing by herself. She does not hesitate, does not flinch, she does not bother pulling on a cloak, she simply bellows for Bill to come down to be with little Ginny, Percy and Charlie hot at his heels with her well-practiced yell. She levitates Ron with a steady, even hand. Even if nothing of her feels steady, even as she feels tears of fear and uncertainty come to her eyes at the sight of her youngest boy twitching and spasming unnaturally. And after her yell, she keeps up her Mother's song on her trembling lips and quickly floos with Ron to Saint Mungo's.

 **OOOOOOO**

 _1981_

Harry Potter remembers when a wand is pointed at his head, by a tall, skeletal man. He is one-years-old, can hardly see past his nose in the darkness of the room. But can see the flash of emerald light- it hits him, agonizing and brilliant and his head slams into the crib bars behind him. Now, all he can do is wail at the feeling that the spell has cast, especially when he spots his mother slumped against the crib, her violently red hair covering her face. He is confused, in pain and he reaches for her, hands so much smaller than what he can comprehend.

The memories of another life come to him like an inferno hot and melting, or rush him like wildfire that blazes across his mind.

He cries and thrashes, and burns through the memories of an adult assaulting a child of only one. He continues to do so when warm, impossibly large hands try to grip him. Rubeus Hagrid is horrified at the sight he sees- Harry Potter sobbing, his fist gripped in tightly over Lily's beautiful auburn hair, as he moved about in clear, unrelenting pain. Hagrid hasn't had much in the terms of being able to help, other than to quickly grab his blanket, bundle the flailing child close and dash as quickly as he can out the door. He makes about three feet from the door when he is startled by Sirius Black*, running up the lane with a wand in hand.

"NO!" he cries, and the young man is aghast as he watches his godson flail and screams in a way no child should ever half too. Hagrid is holding him as steady as he can unsure and frightened beyond belief to what was happening to the boy.

"Sirius! Sirius! O' Lil' an' James! I don' kno' wat ter do wit' Harry- There's somethin' wrong with 'im!" said Hagrid, voice a sob of confusion and grief.

Sirius Black trembles, fevered vows of revenge and grief come to a complete standstill at the sight of the one-year-old. _James' son. My godson._ Every fear of what had happened to Peter*- _he should not have done this to his best friend, he should have never asked Peter to do this and taken the vow himself-_ is gone in that single movement _._ Because _Harry_ needs him.

"Give Harry to me, Hagrid, I'm his godfather, I'll look after him!"

"I 'ave me orders Sirius, I 'ave to take 'im to Dumbledore."

Sirius runs a hand through his hair, panicked, eyes wide as he takes in his thrashing grandson. He swallows. He can't leave him, even to check on Peter. Not now. Not with him like this.

"Hagrid, given him here. I'll hold him while you drive my bike. It can fly and hold us both if I take out the sidecar. Let's go!"

Hagrid nods gives him Harry before they head for the enormous bike.

 **OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

 _1983_

Hermione Granger remembers because she falls off the swings. It is mid-swing that it happens, the old, rusty chain snapping. She _flies,_ hovering in the air for a fraction of a for a fraction of a second longer than gravity would usually allow. She giggles, an infectious thing of a baby. And then it happens.

It's a torrent of earth crushing her mind- a shaking movement that rocks through her mind and takes her completely and utterly down.

She falls like a stone, startling her mother as she starts to twitch, flailing around in wordless pain. When her back arches, cracking, Emmeline Granger is screaming, starling everyone in the small park as she watches her four-year-old daughter twitch and flails as if she was having a seizure. Her father, who had pushed the swing, Robert Granger is already running to her, hands reaching for his daughter with a panic. When her vividly light brown eyes roll into the back of her head, Robert sweeps her up in his arms, bolting for the car with his wife at his heels.

* * *

 **AN:** **I do not own Harry Potter in any sense. It's universe, characters all belong to its wonderful creator, J.K. Rowling, its publishing and broadcasting companies.**

 **This is me, playing in its sandbox, making misshapen sandcastles.**

 **Whew, so from the beginning, this Founders fic was always going to take place in Harry's Generation. I've been throwing around this idea for a while, and finally got the nerve to post it a bit back.**

 **The identity of one of the founders is kept vague on purpose, though I don't doubt that a very savvy Harry Potter fan will get the context clues.**

 ***1: On the subject of Ron Weasley- well. I will justify and fight it, especially when it's revealed who he is in terms of the Founders. But I honestly think he get's a bad rep simply because people don't like him very much. Que bafflement on my part when a lot of fics make him a death-eater, or the fact that hijinks usually excluded him and are delegated to Hermione and Harry gallivanting off with each other. I mostly find that boring, and a little bit of a coup out simply because Ron is very hard to write. No really, he is very difficult because most people seem to focus on making him as petty and mean-spirited as possible, and I don't think that quite true when it comes to his actual character. Yes, he's dense and unthoughtful sometimes, but with a couple exceptions of three instances(third, fourth and seventh year) his is an unwavering loyal friend, and he generally cares about the people he loves. Now, remember that his self-esteem is so terrible that his worst fear is that people will prefer his best-friend over him, up to and including his own family. Oh, and the moments we see him in canon is when he is fucking eleven to _seventeen_. Tell me that most of us were perfectly well adjusted at that age, especially in terms of self-esteem and how we feel in terms of our relationships with others.**

 **So yeah.**

 **Fight me.**

 ***2: Kay. So I was writing Harry's part, and as soon as I remembered that Sirius Black was supposed to come up, I suddenly thought:**

 **"Fuck."**

 **'Cause I knew that it wasn't in his character to leave Harry in obvious pain. And I tried to justify and change it so it goes about as canon. But I couldn't do it without making it illogical or awkward. And yeah. So Sirius made me rewrite the whole first part of the fic because he's a goddamn drama queen that loves his godson and gosh damn it.**

 ***3: Erm... He hasn't gone to check on Peter yet. So for all he knows he's been killed and caused the charm to fail. So, yeah.**


End file.
